Hair of an Heir
by Pandoras-Closet
Summary: Voldemort Has a Daughter. Who is it?
1. Something Old, Something New

Author's note: May Jo Rowling forgive me . . .

There's many reasons why a person does something.

In the case of the most despicable act committed by Lucias Malfoy, it was no other reason then arrogance.

Pride always goeth before a fall.

It happened on a Tuesday. To some, the exact day may seem irrelevant, and perhaps it is, But then, Tuesday is a fairly irrelevant day to begin with. It marks no point in the ordinary week to look forward to, nor does it figure very strongly in any sort of 'ology. In fact, the only real purpose of Tuesday was to have something in between Monday and the middle of the week.

Certainly, it was an ordinary day. One that dawned overcast and cool, a brisk breeze that sneaked through the thick walls of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry to chill the bare skin.

It ceased to be ordinary in that most foreboding of classes; Potions.

Under the baneful eye of Professor Severus Snape, students learned how to combine the stuff of the world into liquid form to do things. Snape often said that Potions was far more elegant magic then the clumsiness of the wand. That was sort of true, even the students who hated him had to admit that there was a certain beauty in the simmering boil of a cauldron holding the liquid magic.

But alas, Draco Malfoy wasn't one of them. The self-styled "Slytherin Prince", Hogwarts' current Head Boy, and in his mind, God among all Hogwarts students, was, on this Tuesday, bored out of his divine mind.

They were making what Snape called Chaos Potions today. Highly advanced, were Chaos Potions, oh yes. In many ways, far more dangerous then wand work, were Chaos Potions. Dangerous in that no one, not even the maker, could precisely predict what a Chaos Potion could or would, do. The power of a potion could only be directed, not controlled. Therefore, it must be mixed, very, very, precisely.

"ninety-eight, ninety-eight and a half," Draco counted under his breath, and then reversed direction of his stirring. Draco did everything the best. He was a Malfoy, after all. But that didn't change the fact that this precise stirring was so mind-numbingly easy that even Longbottom could do it.

Couldn't have that, after all.

A quick glance insured Snape wasn't looking in his direction. Not that Draco had anything to fear, Snape could care less what misfortunes befall the Gryffindors. But there was the Principal of the thing.

Humming tunelessly to himself, Draco finished the precise stirring and glanced at his watch. He now had to wait precisely fifteen and three-eighths of a seconds before using his wand to mix the potion forty-two times in a cross-shaped motion using only his left hand. He removed the ladle from the cauldron and set it down on the table with his right, muttering a slight curse as some of the wetness from the potion got on his finger, even as he took his wand out.

He glanced at his watch. Ten seconds even to go. Humming the same tuneless tune, he removed a Hag's claw from the ingredients tray and set it on his middle finger, just behind the nail, before resting his thumb on the nail. There, a catapult. Then he kicked Crabbe in the leg.

When the older boy looked at him, Draco jerked his head to the side, indicating that the bigger boy should get out of the way.

Crabbe didn't move, instead staring at him, his pig-like eyes, rounded.

"What's the matter with you?" Draco hissed. "Move your head, you stupid git!"

"Y-your face," Crabbe said, all the color leaving it. "Your face . . ."

"What about my--" Draco started to ask and then stopped, as every nerve ending in his body seemed to explode as the world vanished in bright white light.

When the light faded, he was sitting in a bed, his heart pounding against his ribs. "God, he whispered, pressing his hand to his chest in an effort to slow down his heart rate.

His chest . . .?

Draco felt his chest. There was something large, round and not unpleasantly squishy there. Something large, round and not unpleasantly squishy, Draco was sure, should not be there. Last he checked, he did not have anything, large, round, and not unpleasantly squishy on his chest.

He checked the rest of his chest. There were two large, round, not unpleasantly squishy things on his chest. Draco swallowed, looked inside his shirt, and screamed. Then he checked his crotch, screamed again, and passed out.

When Draco awoke, he was staring up at his mother's face which wore what for Narcissa Malfoy, was an expression of concern.

"As you can see, Mrs. Malfoy," Dumbledore's voice said softly, "the Chaos Potion has reversed . . . certain effects."

"I have eyes, Dumbledore," Narcissia snapped. "Lucias?"

"In Azkaban, of course. The Law is quite firm." Dumbledore paused for a moment. "I'm afraid his . . . fellows will simply have to muddle along without him. His Superior will no doubt, be deeply disappointed."

"I doubt that," Narcissa replied. "You know him as well as I do."

"To my shame," Dumbledore replied. Draco heard the swishing of robes. "I'm sure you and young Miss Malfoy have much to speak of."

The doors to the medical wing opened and then closed again.

Draco lay there for a moment, staring at his Mother's face and then something Dumbledore said registered. "Miss?" he exclaimed sitting upright in bed and then blinking as he felt his chest move under his shirt. "I'm not a miss! I-I-I can't be!"

Narcissa slapped him. "Shut up, Draco!" she snapped. "Shut up for once in your life and listen."

Draco shut up.

"Very good," Narcissa said. "You were born a girl. Lucias, may the Dementors choke on his filthy soul, couldn't accept that. Bad enough you were female, leaving him without a son and proper heir."

"I'd hardly call that a mistake," Draco said and got out of bed. A kind of curious detachment had come over her--him. He was a him, damnit-- and the whole thing was rather amusing.

Wandering around nearby beds, he found a mirror lying on the table and examined his reflection. Really, the only thing different was his hair. It was now black and perhaps his face resembled his mother's a bit more. All in all, he still was rather princelike. Yeah. He tilted his head this way and that. There was still a certain royal air to his face. "Still a Prince, Draco," he said to himself as he turned back to his mother and then frowned down at his chest. "A Reduction Charm is definitely in order," he muttered. How did women deal with these things without going mad? "So Father bewitched me so he could satisfy his ego."

"Your Father had little to do with," Narcissia said. "Lucias isn't your father."

Draco sat down on a bed, hysterical laughter boiling forth from his lips. "Mother," he drawled. "You're a slut. So whose my daddy? Not some Muggle, I should hope."

"As if I would allow some Muggle to even lay eyes on me," Narcissia sneered. "Your true Father is Voldemort. He once desired a woman's touch and I was more then happy to oblige. Lucias tended fail expectations in that area anyway."

Draco's mouth fell open, all thought vanishing from his brain. Vaguely, he was aware of Dumbledore returning and then leaving with his Mother. Of Madam Pomfrey helping him out of his school robes and into pajamas before being helped into bed and the lights dimming. But sleep didn't come. As he lay there in the dark, Draco's brain began working again.

What was he? Not a boy, not a Malfoy, not even wizardry. What did he have? Even his mother simply regarded him as a by product of her loyalty to the Dark Lord. With that thought, Draco Malfoy died and all that was left, was to dispose of the body.

Carefully, the thing, which moments ago had been Draco Malfoy (which we will refer to as Draco for narration purposes until further notice) removed the pajamas and donned proper robes, which had been laid on a chair. Then, with precise, smart steps, the "funeral" began.

Out the medical wing door, down the hall. Up the stairs, mind the trick step! Down more corridors and up the stairs, there we go and then onto the open air of the Astronomy tower. There we are, deep breath. Good night. All right, time to die. Up we go. There we are. Quite a way down, aint it? Still, shouldn't be too long. Right. Off we go and --

"You don't want to be doing that," a voice said.

Draco froze, one leg extended into the open space. What an absurd thing. Of course he wanted to be doing this. Really, a person wants to be jumping off a tower, they should be able to jump off a tower. Right, then. Off we --

"Moron," the voice said again. Draco put his foot down. This was absurd. No one, not even voices, called him a Moron.

"Who said that?" he demanded and started to turn around.

"Don't turn," the voice said. "One good Wind Charm and over the edge you go."

"Which is what I was about to do anyway," Draco snapped. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just turn around and see who you are."

"You don't know who I am," the voice replied with a chuckle. "And you'll die without knowing that." The tone became almost mocking. "The Slytherin Prince, dead without even knowing who saw him die. Something to take with you to wherever you're going and spend the rest of eternity wondering about."

Draco froze. The voice was right. He did want to know who the hell had the temerity to interrupt a perfectly good suicide.

"That's better," the voice said, sounding almost relieved. "Now jump backwards off of there." Draco did as he was bid, muttering a curse and pressing a hand to his chest as he did so. Damnit, these things hurt, bouncing around like they did. "No turning around, now." He heard a several softly retreating footsteps.

"Why can't I turn around yet?" Draco demanded. "I'm off the bloody wall."

"Because I don't trust you yet, Draco. I want you alive and intact and so long as you don't know who I am, I know you'll try your damnedest to stay that way. Your Slytherin Curiosity won't let you do less."

Draco scowled. This person knew him, and far to well for his liking. "I can just ask Parkinson. She rules the gossip chains in Slytherin and she'll tell me anything. You won't be able to get back into the dorms without her finding out."

"I suppose that would be a problem . . . if I was a Slytherin."

"What?" Draco gasped. "Not . . . not a Slytherin?" The voice made a noise of confirmation. "Well what the bloody hell are you then? Hufflepuff?"

"Gryffindor," the voice replied and there was the sound of shoes going down stone steps as his unknown savior left the tower roof. Draco just stood there, stunned.

The sun was beginning to rise when Draco finally stirred. A Slytherin saved by a Gryffindor. The irony was overwhelming and he could almost admire the skill in which they had manipulated him into staying alive. He leaned on the wall and stared out at the grounds. He looked down at the ground far below. It didn't seem as inviting as it had when he'd first come up here.

He looked back at the sunrise and frowned. Where do you go from here, Old Sod? He thought about that and then his eyes narrowed. He wasn't a Malfoy, that was for damn sure. He wanted little to do with a father who would change a child into something else for ego's sake and his mother . . . he sighed. Was his mother really that much better?

No, probably not. Well he certainly wasn't about to go running to Potter and his friends, God knew they'd just love that. The Syltherin Prince turning to a . . . he frowned. That's right, he was still a Slytherin.

Not that that was much of a comfort; Crabbe and Goyle were Slytherins as well. So what was left? He thought about that, watching the shadows of trees change as the sun rose higher. His eyes fell on one particular tree and half remembered tales from the Irish nanny who had raised him surfaced in his mind.

He thought about those tales, about the Malfoys, about Voldemort, Potter, the Ministry, Dumbledore and other things. His thoughts were in chaos and . . . a new idea arrived and was followed by a smile.

Sure. Why the hell not? The whole damn magic community was hovering on the edge while Dumbledore and Voldemort dueled and Potter angsted about his past. One good swift kick in the arse and over the side it goes, kicking and screaming while he . . . no, she, waved bye bye and laughed.

At that moment, there were footsteps on the stairs. "Ah, Draco," Dumbledore said. "I thought perhaps that you were here."

"Draco's dead," was the reply. "It was a rather noble death. Very quick." She turned and faced the Headmaster. With him was Snape, Narcissia, McGonagall and Pomfrey.

"I see," Dumbledore said gravely, studying the young girl through his half-moon glasses. "And you are?"

"Rowan," she replied, removing the Head Boy pin from her robes and tossing it to land at Dumbledore's feet. "Jack Rowan."

"Quit being so damned melodramatic, Draco" Narcissia snapped, snatching the pin from Dumbledore's hand and striding forward as she reached for Jack's arm. "You're not AH!"

Moving to fast to be seen, Jack's arm had snapped out, grabbed Narcissia's wrist and twisted until the older woman had fallen to her knees with a whimper of pain. Slowly, Jack turned her head and met Narcissia's eyes. "Touch me again," Jack said softly. "And I'll make Voldemort look like Mother Teresa in comparison." She twisted harder and Narcissa cried out.

"Five points from Slytherin, Miss Rowan," Dumbledore said softly. "Violence is never acceptable for violence's sake." He looked down at Narcissia. "No matter how justified."

"Yes, sir," Jack replied, and let go, her tone just shy of disrespect.

If Dumbledore heard the tone, he gave no sign. "If you would, Miss Rowan, please accompany Madam Pomfrey back to the medical wing for one last exam and then Professor Snape will escort you back to your House Dorm. Under the circumstances, you are excused from classes for the day."

"Fine by me," Jack replied. She indicated her chest. "I want these things reduced anyway." She pushed past Snape and headed down the stairs.

Today was the first day of the rest of her life . . . they wouldn't know what hit them.


	2. Meet Jack Rowan

Author's Note: Ulterior Motive? What possible ulterior motive could I have for writing this?

Jack Rowan hummed a tune as she left the medical wing. All things considered, not to bad. Well except for the fact that Pomfrey had refused to flatten her chest completely, claiming Jack might want them later. At least they were more properly sized now and with a proper bra on, didn't even move around. Marvelous thing, a proper bra. She didn't know why she hadn't started wearing one sooner.

Ah yes, didn't need one. Well there was a niggling detail you just couldn't get around. Damn. She thought for a moment about forcing Crabbe or Goyle into one and then dismissed it with a shake of her head. Those were crazy thoughts and that just wasn't proper. Unbecoming a witch, crazy thoughts.

She turned the corner and started up the steps to the Owlery.

"The Slytherin Dorm is in the other direction, Miss Rowan," Snape said from behind her.

"I need to go to the Owlery, Sir," Jack said. "Won't take but a minute." Before Snape could reply, Jack dashed up the stairs and out of sight.

Oh yes, Marvelous thing, a proper bra.

In the Owlery, Jack waved for Draco's Eagle owl to come down. The bird stared at her for a moment then spread its wings and glided down.

Jack gave the letter one last look.

To Gringotts Accounting Office:

Remove the sum of five thousand Gold Galleons from the family vault and use it to open an account under the name of Jack Rowan who is to be awarded sole dominion and responsibility for its use. Key to be delivered to her at Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

-Narcissa Malfoy.

Forging Narcissa's handwriting hadn't been easy, especially with Pomfrey hanging around, but it had been done. Now even if Narcissa went nuts and had Gringotts cut off Draco's access to the family vault, Jack had no money worries. Besides, with all the money that flowed in and out of the vault daily five thousand should disappear into the flow very easily in just a day or two. Which was about how long it should take for Narcissa to recover from the shock Jack had given her. She tied the note to the owl's leg. "Gringotts," she said simply and the owl glided out of the room.

Right. Back down then. Smart steps now, different hips and all. Marvelous thing, a proper bra. Whee!

Snape was waiting for her at the bottom of the steps. "I trust, Miss Rowan, that you have no more side trips planned?"

"Nope. That was the last one." It was the only one, actually.

Dutifully, she followed Snape through the corridors --did he ever actually wash his hair?-- down the steps and into the Slytherin common room, which, at this time of day, was deserted.

"Your things have been moved the seventh year girls dormitory," Snape said. "I'm sure you can find it. You will be expected to join your house at dinner." With that, Snape left the room.

Well, Jack, here you are. What shall I do first? Read? Nap? Plot world conquest? Do laundry? Play Solitaire? Oooh, decisions, decisions, sweet meats, decisions.

Sweet meats? Yum! Jack went to raid Draco's locker.

A few hours later, she heard the painting open and the sound of Slytherins returning. She dropped into a chair and crossed her legs. Sitting just so, allowing the the light from the torches to capture her face just so, you sexy beast.

"Draco?" Pansy Parkinson pushed her way to the front of the crowd and hurried towards her. "Are you all right? Madam Pomfrey changed you back, right?"

Jack stared up at her. Draco was in love with this? You had deplorable taste, OId Sod, you really did. Fortunately, you're dead. But I'm not. Damn. I have to deal with this. You owe me big time, you bastard.

"Draco's dead," Jack said and stood up fast enough that Parkinson flinched backwards. Which was nice, the flinching that was. More people should flinch backwards from Jack Rowan, yessiree Merlin. In fact, let's take care of that right now. Just wait for the moment. Wait for it . . .

Pansy stared, goggle eyed, then laughed nervously. "But you're standing right there, Draco."

Wait for it . . .

"He died. Dead. Six feet under. My name's Jack Rowan."

Wait for it . . .

Another nervous laugh. Merlin's teeth, how did you resist the urge to strangle her, Draco? Draco? You paying attention? Oh, right . . . you're dead. Bloody inconvenient, that.

Wait for it . . .

"Come on, Draco, stop being silly," Pansy said, and reached out to take Draco's arm.

NOW!

With the same speed that she'd used on the tower, Jack grabbed Parkinson's arm, spun her around, and twisted it up behind her back. She then wrapped her free arm around Parkinson's throat and pulled her head back.

"My name," Jack said, slowly and carefully, "is Jack Rowan. I'm here to replace Draco Malfoy, who's dead and if anyone says that they miss him, they're a liar." She jerked Parkinson's head further back and met the other girl's eyes, which widened in sheer terror. "I have a message for the students of Hogwarts, Pansy," she purred.

"M-message?"

"Yeah, the message is this; 'God's come to Hogwarts, her name's Jack Rowan, and she's pissed." She shoved Parkinson away. "Start spreading the word." She jabbed a finger at Crabbe and Goyle. You two. Here." They came shuffling over, their eyes empty of thought. Good Me, Draco, you up and die and leave me with these for minions? No wonder Potter kept kicking your arse all over the bloody castle.

She grabbed Crabbe's necktie, he being the smarter of the two, and pulled him down so that she could whisper in his ear. "I have a message for the Dark Lord, one you're going to send him. Tell him what happened to Malfoy. Tell him whose replaced him . . . she twisted her grip on Crabbe's tie and he began to choke. "And if he still considers me a Death Eater . . . I quit." She released Crabbe and shoved him away. Crabbe stared at her a moment and then shuffled off, Goyle in his wake.

Easy as you please, Jack wandered over to the bookcase, selected one at random and then sat down in a chair to read.

* * *

Hermione Granger, current Head Girl of Hogwarts, wasn't one for gossip. It was, in her opinion, silly and foolish.

But when the gossip was that Draco Malfoy was dead, she went straight to her two closest friends and found them already in the dining hall.

As usual, Ron Weasley was staring at his dish as though he could will dinner to appear by sheer force of will. Harry Potter was staring off into space, preoccupied with something, but he acknowledged her arrival with a nod.

"Hullo, Hermione," Ron said, not taking his eyes from his plate.

"Draco's dead. Its all over the school," Hermione said as she sat down.

"Dead? Malfoy?" Harry asked, green eyes narrowing. "How?"

"Probably the Chaos Potion," Ron said. "Git must have sipped it or something." The two boys exchanged glances. "This is gonna be the best year ever, huh, Harry?" Harry nodded and then smiled at Ginny Weasley, who had just sat down on Ron's other side.

"Honestly," Hermione sighed. "Malfoy's dead, Ron. Perhaps a little compassion might be in order?"

Ron opened his mouth to reply when he felt Harry stiffen beside him. A split second later, Ginny did the same. Ron looked at each of them, and then where they were looking.

A girl stood in the doorway. She was short and skinny with pale skin and dark hair that had been slicked back. She wore a boy's school uniform in the Slytherin colors and a secretive smile. Her hands were clasped behind her and she was gazing at the Great Hall as though she owned it. Then, almost casually, she turned on her heel and calmly strolled towards the Slytherin Table.

"That's Rowan!" Ron looked over as Lavender Brown and Pavarati Patil sat down next to Hermione.

"Who?" Ron asked.

"Jack Rowan," Pavarati said. "I heard she killed Draco to take his place."

"She thinks she's God," Lavender said.

"She strangled Pansy Parkinson and then raised her corpse," Pavarati said, nodding.

"She told off Voldemort," Lavender put in.

"She's Voldemort's Daughter," Harry said flatly.

Everyone turned to look at him. The Boy Who Lived was sitting ramrod straight, an unreadable emotion in his eyes.

"What?" Hermione asked softly.

"Rowan. She's Voldemort's Daughter."

"Harry?" Ron asked softly. "Are you sure?"

"It's the hair."

"The hair?" Lavender repeated. "Harry, we've all seen the Prophet Photos when he lead the Death Eater attack on Saint Mungos. He has no hair."

"No . . ." Harry closed his eyes and struggled to find the words without giving away what had happened in the Chamber of Secrets in his second year. If anyone knew that Voldemort's younger self had been controlling Ginny's mind, she'd never hear the end of it. "I just . . . know."

"Odd," Hermione said. The bushy-haired girl was twisted around in her seat, staring across the room at Rowan.

"What's odd?" Ginny asked.

"The Slytherins," Hermione said in a thoughtful voice. "None of them are sitting near her. It's like they're . . . afraid." She pursed her lips in thought. "No, terrified. They're terrified of her."

The sound of a fork striking glass drew their attention and they all looked towards the High Table as Dumbledore stood up.

"Before we begin," Dumbledore said. "I have some things to say. First off, Draco Malfoy is dead, an accident in Potions. As such, Potions is hereby suspended until completion of a Ministry investigation." A few quiet cheers went up from the Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tables. "Those of you who were in the class with him at the time should expect questioning from Ministry officials." Dumbledore paused for a moment. "Draco was a credit to his house, exemplifying many of the qualities that define a Slytherin. He was cunning, ambitious, and quick to seize the opportunities presented to him." He reached down and lifted his glass. "To Draco Malfoy."

"To Draco Malfoy," the Hall murmured. For the first time, Ron noticed the banners on the wall were black.

"Secondly," Dumbledore continued. "As morbid as it is, a New Head Boy is needed. I am pleased to announce that the new Head Boy is Mister Ronald Weasley of Gryffindor."

"Me?" Ron asked as the Gryffindor table exploded in cheers. The red-haired boy looked physically ill. "Head Boy?"

"Congratulations, Mister Weasley," Dumbledore said. "And lastly, I would liked to welcome Jack Rowan to Hogwarts and to Slytherin House. I'm sure she will prove to be a credit to Slytherin House."

"Actually," Jack called out. "I plan to be two credits!"

"And we all look forward to it," Dumbledore said with a chuckle. "And now, let us feast."

* * *

McGonagall came up to them as they left the Great Hall. "Congratulations, Mister Weasley," she said, handing him the Head Boy Badge.

"Thank you, Ma'am," Ron said quietly as he took the badge.

"You know," McGonagall said thoughtfully, "the last time the Head Boy and Girl were both Gryffindors, it was Mister Potter's parents. Harry's father was even the Quidditch Captain." She smiled down at him. "Don't let us down, Mister Weasley." With that, she turned and walked away.

"Me, Head Boy . . ." Ron moaned as Hermione took the badge from his hand and pinned it to his robe. "And Quidditch Captain."

"You sound upset," Ginny noted lightly.

"I am, Ginny," Ron said. "Do you know what Fred and George will do when they hear about this? I'll never hear the end of it."

"All things come to an end, Ronald," said a new voice from behind them. They turned to see Rowan standing in the shadow of the Great Hall doors, the upper half of her face in shadow. Harry could feel her eyes though. They bored out from the blackness, measuring, assessing . . . hungry.

"It's Ron," Ron snapped. "And what do you want?"

"Only to offer my congratulations," Rowan replied in an even tone. "And to say that I look forward to meeting you on the Quidditch field this Saturday, one Captain to another."

"You're the Slytherin Captain?" Hermione repeated. "How? You just got here."

"Oh I'm not Captain right now," Rowan replied. "Not even on the team." She paused and her mouth stretched in a smile that made Harry shiver. "Yet." With that, she turned and walked away.

Ron turned and looked looked at his friends and his sister. After a moment, Hermione reached up and squeezed his shoulder. "Don't worry, Ron. She's just trying to mess with you. There's no way she'll be Captain."

* * *

Saturday . . .

Maurice Mangon, Slytherin Chaser, wasn't the brightest of wizards. He was big, mean, and had just enough brains to realize that attaching himself to Draco Malfoy's coat tails would take him far in life.

He also made an interesting noise when Jack rammed her knee into his crotch. The noise his head made as it hit the floor when he folded up and dropped was simply delightful. But the looks on the faces of the Slytherin Quidditch Team, that was . . . mmm, so tasty.

"Mister Mangon seems to have hearing problems," Jack said lightly. "Still, I think that's been corrected." She looked around the locker room. "Just to be sure. Anyone else having trouble hearing me when I said that I'm Seeker and Captain?" There was a chorus of shaken heads. "Good," Jack said and walked over to the board where a diagram of the Quidditch field had been drawn. "Here's what we'll do," she said as she turned back to the team and began to explain. "Any questions?" she asked when she was done. The Keeper raised his hand. "Yes?"

"With respect, Captain," he said. "You're gambling an awful lot. One mess up and we'll be out of the tournament completely."

"True," Jack said lightly and then smiled. "But think of the fun." A bell went off. "It's time. Remember your instructions. More importantly, remember that Potter is mine."

* * *

High above the Pitch, Harry couldn't believe how well the game was going. Gryffindor had close to a hundred points to their credit and Slytherin hadn't even scored once. Even Ron, who had moaned nervously when Rowan had been announced as Seeker and Slytherin Captain, was playing very well. Not that he had much to do, Gryffindor kept taking the Qauffle long before it ever got near him and the Slytherin Keeper was only half-heartedly trying to guard the hoops. Early in the game, Rowan had zoomed off around the stands, but had reappeared moments later, looking vaguely annoyed, which told Harry that she had lost it.

Harry shrugged and returned to looking for the Snitch, only to nearly fall off his broom as Rowan's head dropped into his field of vision.

"Lovely day for a game, isn't it?" she said cheerfully. "Thunderstorm brewing, lightning flashing and thunder rumbling . . . Gryffindor whupping our arse . . ."

Looking up, Harry saw that she had hooked her legs around her broomstick and hanging from them like a kid on the monkey bars. Down below, Gryffindor scored again, putting them at a hundred and ten to zero. Looking back, he saw that Jack had pushed her goggles up and his heart skipped a beat in his chest.

She was Voldemort's child, no mistake. Harry was one of the few people who knew that Tom Riddle and Voldemort were the same person, and Tom Riddle was clearly evident in Rowan's hair and eyes. Worse still, those eyes . . . Harry swallowed. Then she smiled and Harry was practically seated on the bristles of his broomstick before he realized it in effort to get away.

Below, Gryffindor scored three more times, bringing them up to a hundred and forty and Slytherin went on the defense. They formed up on their goal and ruthlessly refused to let the Gryffindor team anywhere near it. He heard Ron howl in rage at something, but didn't dare take his eyes off Rowan.

"What do you want?" Harry demanded.

"Not much." She pulled herself upright and then dropped, landing lightly on the head. Above, her broomstick hovered a second longer, and then dropped into her hand. She smiled at Harry and crouched, the wind blowing her Quidditch robes out to one side. She looked down at herself and pressed a finger to her chest and made it shake, the rest of her fingers curled around something. "Marvelous thing, a proper bra, Potter."

"I wouldn't know," Harry said.

She laughed the same way Harry recalled his Aunt Petunia laughing when his cousin Dudley had done something "precious" as a kid, and while her laugh was much more pleasant then Aunt Petunia's, Harry was still taken back when she reached out and tapped his nose with a finger. "I can see why Draco hated you, Potter."

"Is that why you killed him?" Harry asked.

She cocked her head and studied him for a moment, making Harry feel like a the snake he had released a lifetime ago, before he'd ever learned the truth about his parents, and himself. He knew now how it felt. Imprisoned by an invisible barrier while strange creatures stared at him. "I haven't killed anyone, Potter." Implied in her tone was "yet" and Harry fought down the fear in his chest. He had to stay calm. He was aware that the game had come to a complete halt as everyone stared at them. Rowan smiled again and then reached down and tugged the broomstick handle up, and the Firebolt began a lazy spiral into the sky, carrying them closer to the storm building high overhead.

"You're Voldemort's daughter, aren't you?" Harry said.

"She considered this. "If you mean the Dark Lord diddled me mum seventeen years ago and I was the result, yes. I carry his blood in my veins . . . and he's going to be as upset about that as I am about it."

Going to be. Harry filed that away to tell Hermione in the hopes she could make sense of it. "You never told me what you wanted," he said out loud.

"What's the point of school, Potter?" She countered. "Why are we here?"

"To learn magic," Harry replied and then had to grab the stick to keep from falling as a bolt of lightning set the tail of Rowan's broom aflame. Rowan didn't even jump, but instead regarded the flames with a dispassionate interest until they were blown out by the wind.

Harry risked a glance upwards. The dark and angry clouds were drawing closer.

"And how do we learn them?" Rowan asked, not once removing her eyes from the charred bristles of her broomstick. "Through lessons. Lessons, Potter." She looked back at him and then held out her hand, palm up, and opened her fingers. Cupped in her palm was the Golden Snitch, which fluttered its wings. "Congratulations on a game well played," she said as she stood up and tugged her goggles back down over her eyes.

Rain had begun to fall and with a smile, she fell backwards off the broom. Stunned, Harry could only watch as she plunged downwards until she drew even with the stands. At that point, she pulled her broom stick under her and standing on it, hands clasped behind her back, rode right to where Professor Dumbledore was sitting and offered him the Snitch, which he accepted with a nod. Rowan then glided over to Ron, shook his hand, and sped off towards the changing rooms.

Feeling sick, Harry pushed the stick downwards and made his way towards the ground.

"She shook my hand," Ron said in a sick voice as he and Harry made their way to the locker room. "Called me a worthy opponent."

"That was deliberate," Harry said through clenched teeth as they entered the changing rooms and racked their brooms before pulling off their wet robes.

"Deliberate?" Ron echoed. "What do you mean, Harry?"

Harry sighed as they finished changing and left the room, Ginny joining them as they walked out to where Hermione was waiting with umbrellas. "She deliberately let us get up to a hundred and forty, just so she could snatch a victory out from under our nose."

"It was just luck," Ron said. "Luck."

"Not even Slytherin plays that badly on their worst day," Harry replied. "No one plays that badly. She was baiting us." The icy rain made it even colder and their breath steamed as they walked. "And we took it."

"But when did she catch the Snitch?" Ginny wondered.

"Probably when she took off around the stands," Hermione said. "She must have caught it and pretended otherwise." She paused and continued in admiring tone. "Marvelous planning, really. She hinged everything on that. If Madam Hooch had known that she'd caught the Snitch before Gryffindor reached a hundred and forty, the game would have been over and she wouldn't have been able to trump us like that. It was as much a psychological victory as it was a Qudditch match."

They drew in sight of the Hogwart's main doors and entered. "Here," Harry said, spying an empty classroom and pulled his friends inside. There, he told them what Rowan had said to him during the game.

"It almost sounds like she's planning to take on Vold-" She sighed as Ron hissed. "Planning to take on You-Know-Who. She's either very confident, or bonkers."

Harry sat down on a desk. "I think its worse than that," he said.

"What do you mean, Harry?" Hermione asked.

"You know how people say eyes are windows to the soul?" Ron, Hermione, and Ginny nodded. "Up there, I looked her in the eyes . . . and saw nothing." Harry's voice dropped to a despair laden whisper. "There's nothing there."


End file.
